


this day in november

by pyrrhlc



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, Trans Enjolras, Trans Marius, Transgender Day of Remembrance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-20
Updated: 2018-11-20
Packaged: 2019-08-26 03:50:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16673974
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pyrrhlc/pseuds/pyrrhlc
Summary: “At least we remember them,” Marius says, and the barest quiver in his voice tells Enjolras that he remembers – all the things they have fought for this year, and all the times they have lost. The people they’ve lost. “The world might forget, but we don’t.”Sometimes, Enjolras thinks, candles just aren’t enough. He has to live with it.





	this day in november

It’s been a year since the last vigil, but somehow he still manages to feel a hell of a lot older. Enjolras closes his eyes for a moment before laying the tea light in his hand beside the others. There’s too many this year – more than last year, he thinks, or perhaps that’s just an illusion, his mind playing tricks. There are always too many candles.

He leans back, allowing the tiny flames to surround him for a moment, before drawing back entirely. It’s too quiet at the Musain this evening. Enjolras starts as a hand lays itself across his shoulder. He expects Combeferre, but is surprised to feel Marius looking back at him instead. His eyebrows are creased in a way that is far too familiar for comfort. Enjolras smiles at him grimly and stands up. His legs ache, as does his ribcage. Something important is missing from him, tonight, and it isn’t compassion.

The dead press in on him from all sides. When Marius gestures silently towards the balcony, Enjolras doesn’t hesitate.

“So,” Marius says as they step outside, and all at once Enjolras realises that he’s intimidated – intimidated by Enjolras, even after all these months. He wonders again if Marius deserved the dressing-down he received when he first came to the café, and is relieved to find that he still thinks himself just. He’s discussed it with Combeferre any number of times, but it’s OK, because the answer is still the same: _no_.

_No, you’re wrong._

And later, Combeferre, more gently: _I don’t think this is the right place for you. I’m sorry._

He had been wrong, about that last part, but that’s fine – it means he’s justified in being right again for a while. Enjolras knows better than to doubt himself too strongly. He does his best to ease the tension between them, stretched taut like the surface of a balloon. Enjolras isn’t so sure he has the right tools for this conversation.

But they have this in common, at least. They have grief.

“So,” he counters, looking sideways at Marius out of the corner of his eye as he leans his elbows against the balcony. Marius laughs awkwardly, caught in the act of pretence. The night air is cool on Enjolras’ skin; it’s a welcome change from the stuffiness of inside. He tries not to feel too guilty for thinking it. It doesn’t work.

“It feels different, this year,” Marius says to him, not quite looking at him, choosing to stare out at the patchwork of streets and buildings below. Paris is lit up like it always is; a city of the night. Enjolras heart aches to look at it. Hedging, Marius asks, “Does it feel different to you?”

“Yes,” Enjolras says, because that is the truth, and he is always truthful. Then: “No. I don’t know. There are too many candles.”

Marius is not Combeferre, but he seems to register the anger in Enjolras’ voice just the same. His eyes dart sideways to watch Enjolras’ fingernails scrape against the railing. He is nervous, because he is Marius, but he is not afraid. Enjolras notices it quietly and files it away for later. He could use the introspection.

“At least we remember them,” he says, and the barest quiver in his voice tells Enjolras that he remembers – all the things they have fought for this year, and all the times they have lost. The people they’ve lost. “The world might forget, but we don’t.”

They’ve been holding this vigil for four years, Enjolras realises with a jolt. It doesn’t feel like four years. Four lists and more than eight hundred candles. He is not the same person that he was, and neither, surprisingly, is Marius. He sighs and releases his grip on the railing, spreading his palms flat. What a spoiled thing he is. Enjolras forgets the rest so easily. He forgets the individual lives that they commemorate. He lives in the statistics. He has to step out of those boxes, those assumptions.

They have to keep fighting, he realises, or they will lose. Enjolras is not prepared for that. But still the feeling persists, crawling beneath his skin, a deeper knowledge that he just can’t shake. Some days, it feels barely possible to remember so many. So many names. So many places. His next sigh is much more volatile than the first; Marius takes a brave step closer.

“It doesn’t feel like _enough_ ,” he gets out, angry again, because he is not his friends: at times like this, it is anger than fuels him. At times like this, he is too pragmatic for compassion. “Lighting candles isn’t enough. Prayers aren’t enough. They can’t undo the damage we’ve caused. They don’t bring people back.”

He sounds petulant – something he rarely is, and yet this feeling has been building up in him for months. For all their fighting, on this day – on any day like this, but especially this day – he feels inconsequential. Insignificant, in the wider scheme of things. He doesn’t realise Marius is still watching him until he lifts up his head. They’re all friends, here, but there are moments where Enjolras thinks he doesn’t know Marius at all. He should be better, he thinks. The rest of the thought is silenced by Marius moving to stand beside him. They are both so much _less_ than they should be, on this day. He doesn’t want to be vulnerable. He wants to fight.

“We will, you know,” Marius says, and Enjolras realises he’s spoken that last part aloud. “We will fight. But not today. It doesn’t have to be every day.”

 _We are too hopeful for this_ , Enjolras thinks suddenly. Then he dismisses it. Hope is all they have. He’s just going to have to learn to live with it.

“Why did you bring me out here?” he asks at last. Perched on the railings beside him, Marius’ hands are milk-white and freckled, shivering in the cold. They are too hopeful for this. But it’s enough, for now. It has to be.

“You looked like you might need a moment,” Marius says, and with a guilty jolt Enjolras wonders if there are hidden depths to him after all. He drops his eyes to the city below; Enjolras sees him swallow. Then he says, “I’m too new to this. It hasn’t really hit me, yet.”

Enjolras leans back and silently nods. He understands. He lights two candles every year. One for his cousin and one for his brother. He isn’t sure the reality has sunk in for him yet, either. Statistics are so much easier to consume than facts.

”Thank you,” he says quietly, because he means it. Marius just smiles. It’s a sad thing, but they are permitted that tonight.

”No problem,” he replies. The smallest pause stretches between them. “There’s always tomorrow. We fight tomorrow.”


End file.
